Obsession
by Mad Scientist Sidekick
Summary: Gotham has been living in relative peace for over two years, with a new DA who has taken an interest in Bruce Wayne - until a Joker copycat, Scarecrow, and a new mob boss who may have ties to the new DA start creating chaos. Nolanverse Harley Quinn.
1. Prologue

Obsession

**You can credit Bob Kane for the creation of Batman, and Christopher Nolan and his cast (especially Heath Ledger) for the film that inspired the circumstances specific to this story. I am merely an amateur using their work as inspiration.**

**Author's Note: Firstly, I apologize in advance to fanboys for the considerable liberties I take with canonical origins and explanations. If you have a problem with original characters, this is not the story for you. This is a Batman fanfic and yet weirdly I'm pretty sure Gordon and the Joker both get more "screen time." A special thanks goes to The Joker Blogs channel on Youtube, though the stories are considerably different. Also, issuing a fair warning this story, like the film that inspired it, pushes the whole Teen/PG-13 thing. There's quite a bit of violence, some language like "crap" and "screwed over", drug references (mostly for psychiatric purposes and, after all the story does feature Scarecrow, some more nefarious purposes) and implied sexuality (more in this fic than in the movie). This fic started out as a way for me to try to figure out how they could have my friend's favorite villainess realistically without the Joker, and then, when I was watching Wicked Attraction on one of the Discovery channels it became a story all on its own, of which the Joker was definitely a huge part. Given the extreme unlikelihood of an actor who can hold a candle to Heath Ledger or the invention of a time machine allowing me to journey back in time and save him, the only way I could express this story was as a fanfiction. Rest in peace Mr. Ledger, and if I'm wrong about that time machine thing ...**

_For we are shaped and fashioned by what we love._

Prologue

A woman stormed in, slammed a heavy case file on the table, and sat across from him, pulling her chair out as roughly as was humanly possible. "This is the part where I'm supposed to make you think I'm your friend so you'll confide in me but I figure you'll see clean through that in about thirty seconds so I'll skip the niceties. I'm Dr. Quinzel and yes, I know perfectly well I'm not your idea of a good thing but I'm the only thing standing between you and lethal injection so get used to it, and don't you dare start laughing." The Joker studied her curiously, wondering why she wasn't frightened. Most women were frightened of him - so were most men, actually - and he thought he knew why. Apparently most women thought he would ravish them as soon as they turned their backs, and for some reason this thought was especially unpleasant. But she, if anything, looked annoyed. She was pretty, but not extraordinarily so, and he thought she might be a lot better looking if she would take down her dirty blond hair from the bun she had put together rather sloppily and if she'd bother to wear make-up (then again, it was three o'clock in the morning, after all).

"Who says I want you there?" he asked as belligerently as he could. He was exhausted, he had been sedated, presumably with some kind of opiate, he was in a straightjacket, he was barefoot, and his leg was chained to the table. That's what you get for escaping from MCU in such a flashy way, he told himself.

"Because you want to live and all the other doctors are either scared of you or asleep or you've already refused to cooperate with them," she answered without skipping a beat. Even though she was obviously very pissed off about being called at three in the morning, she was smiling a little. He guessed she probably smiled a little all the time, no matter how she felt.

"Who says I want anyone there?" he corrected himself.

"You want to die?" she asked, flipping open a notebook and writing something hurriedly.

"No."

"Then you don't want to be executed."

"I don't care."

"You don't care if you live or die? You don't even care how you die if you die?" she asked, finally understanding what he was saying. She stopped her frenzied writing, and actually studied him for a minute. She looked him in the eye - that was unusual too. Her intense brown eyes bore into his own without a hint of fear, only curiosity. And they were quite a pair of eyes, deep and burning with something he thought he recognized. Then she wrote something down in the little notebook, breaking off eye contact with him. He got the impression she didn't want to. Suddenly, for reasons he couldn't explain, he wanted desperately to touch her face, to feel the smooth, fair skin against his hand, to caress the high cheekbones and the blood-red lips ... "Why not?" she asked, looking up again. He didn't answer. Oh, what he'd do with her now if it weren't for the straight jacket and the chain. She sensed the way he was studying her, and she pulled up her blouse a little bit but otherwise ignored it.

"Look, Mr. ... what am I supposed to call you exactly?"

"J," he answered without a thought, and she raised her eyebrows.

"Hm. Mind telling me your real name?"

"And make it easy for Gordon to find me? No."

"What if I promised I wouldn't tell him?"

"Why should I trust you? You said so yourself, you're not my friend."

"Do you trust anyone?" he stayed silent. "Look, if you don't start answering some questions here, the DA is going to take your belligerence as a sign of competency and he'll send one of his shrinks down here and I promise you, they will find you sane if you curl up in a ball and insist you're a lobster." He shrugged, and she shook her head and started to write something in the notebook. Apparently her pen ran out of ink and she tapped it against the paper and swore at it as though any amount of chiding could make the pen suddenly refill.

"Do you always have such a short temper, or just at three in the morning?" he asked, amused by her struggles with the pen.

"Only when I'm dealing with individuals like you. I'm sorry, does it bother you?" she asked sarcastically.

"Where are you from? Virginia?" She was taken aback, and took a minute to make sure her accent wasn't bleeding through, and asked,

"How'd you know? I don't have an accent anymore, do I?"

"When you swear, I can hear it, because you don't talk like that except, like you said, when you're dealing with individuals like me."

"Yeah, I'm from, uh, from Last Chance. It's a little Podunk place nobody's heard of where everyone's married to their second cousin. And you?"

"Same place," he answered, doing a dead-on impression of the accent she used to have, and she almost laughed. "You don't remember me?"

"No, really, I think I can eliminate most of the Southern United States but ..."

"What's your first name?" he asked. Every part of him was burning to come across the table, and he started trying to find a way to work himself out of the straightjacket that wasn't noticeable.

"Harleen, and it's not supposed to be the question game here ..." Harleen Quinzel ... that was an interesting name.

"Do you understand where you are?" she asked, taking a serious tone.

"Yes."

"Just for the record, where are you?"

"What appears to be an interview room at Arkham Asylum."

"Do you understand why you're here?"

"Obviously, the powers that be think I might be crazy."

"Do you know why they think that?"

"It probably has something to do with the incident at Gotham General."

"And the ferries."

"Don't rub it in."

"Why did you burn the blood money you got from the mob?"

"As long as I can get hold of my supplies, I don't need anything else. These mobsters don't care about anything – if they could make the same money sweeping floors they'd do it in a heartbeat."

"And that offends you?" He shrugged. "So, why did you kill those people, if not for the money?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On who's asking."

"Their families," she said, catching him off-guard. All the others had given the professional answer - me, the police, the DA ... But he was as composed as ever, sucking on his cheeks. "Don't do that," she said softly. He ignored her.

"You know, I've always wondered why they want to know so badly. Doesn't change anything."

"Understanding why makes it easier."

"No it doesn't. Whether I say I killed them because it turned me on or I think I'm the Angel of Death, they're still dead."

"So do you think you're the Angel of Death?" she asked.

"No."

"Do you get any kind of sexual thrill from hurting others?"

"No. No. You notice most of the people I kill are men?"

"So you're heterosexual?"

"Yes, is that relevant?" he asked, and tried to look at her as suggestively as he could, but she was looking down, writing away in the little notebook.

"Maybe," she answered. After a moment, she looked up at him over her glasses. "So, if not for money, sex, or because you're the Angel of Death, why?"

"Now who's asking?"

"The DA's office, they're making sure they get the trial most of Gotham is screaming for. Why don't you want to cooperate with anyone here?"

"Why are you here?"

"It's my job to be here."

"Not at three in the morning."

"Because I don't want you to die."

"Why not? You don't believe in the death penalty."

"Of course I do, there's plenty of men who deserve it, but I don't think you do." That made him laugh, and she still didn't flinch away from him. "Why not?" he finally asked.

"People who deserve to die are the ones who were sane when they did it."

"You think I'm crazy?"

"Sane people care if they live or not, or at least about how they die. They also don't burn a multi-million dollar fortune or laugh when they're punched in the face by overzealous arresting officers."

"Is that what you're going to tell the DA?"

"Yeah. Whoever it is now. This town gets worse and worse," at last, her voice betrayed weariness.

"Why don't you leave?" he asked, cocking his head, trying to read her face. She'd been through Hell - most people wouldn't have known that to look at her, but there was something in her face that was hard, cold ...

"Because the rest of the world is just as awful," she answered candidly. "Now, why don't you ..."

"I don't want to deal with the little dog-and-pony show right now," he answered roughly. She looked at him, seeing him as a human for the first time.

"When's the last time you ate?" she asked, her whole tone changed now. She really had a sweet voice, soft. A guy could get lost in it. He had to think about the answer.

"Two days ago."

"Have you slept at all since your arrest?"

"No."

"All right. Guard!" There was a loud buzzing sound as the door opened slowly and one of the armed guards who was standing right outside entered with a key to the chain on the Joker's leg and a new set of shackles. "Get him some food and then take him to his cell. I'll examine him in the morning." She didn't look at him again, but once again he sensed that looking away was something she had to force herself to do. She wanted to look at him. She gathered her things and started to leave, but as the guard unchained him he jumped up, and the guard, surprised by his sudden swiftness wasn't able to catch him before he slammed into her and pushed her against the wall. He had worked one of his hands free of the straightjacket, and with it he grabbed hers and pushed it against his face so that her finger was digging painfully into one of his scars. Surely she would be afraid now - nobody in their right mind wouldn't be afraid at this point ... But she didn't flinch.

"It's okay, Officer," Dr. Quinzel shouted as the guard, panicked, pulled a gun. She took J's hand and lifted her sleeve to reveal what looked like three deliberate cigarette burns, and put his fingers on the old wounds, feeling the scar tissue. "We all have our scars, J," she said soothingly as the guard grabbed the loose arm and forced it roughly back into the sleeve of the jacket, than jerked him away by his shoulders. "Get some sleep," she added as he left and another guard ran to her, as though to make sure she was really okay. Crazy, crazy, crazy, he thought gleefully.


	2. Chapter 1: Two Years' Peace

Chapter 1: Two Years' Peace

**Sorry about the delay guys, I'm trying to take care of graduation, finals, and music practice, so I've been super busy. Also, I write out of order so the second half is actually mostly finished, so once we get through the first half I'll be posting chapters probably every other day. I appreciate your patience and here, for your enjoyment, is the next chapter.**

**And oh yeah, just in case anyone forgot, I do not own any of the DC characters, and as always thanks to Heath Ledger for the inspiration, RIP dear man.**

_They say neurotics build castles in the sky, psychotics live in them, and psychiatrists collect the rent. – Mary, _In Plain Sight.

When a pair of Gotham police investigated a bank robbery in the middle of the day almost two and a half years later, they were shocked to enter the bank and discover the would-be robbers lying dead on the floor. Closer examination revealed that they were all wearing clown masks, and a wave of cold dread ran through rookie and veteran alike. They hoped it was just coincidence. While poking around, trying to assess the casualties, the rookie discovered something odd. "Take a look at this, Shultz," she said, removing a seemingly innocent playing card from beneath one of the dead clowns with a pair of tweezers. Shultz took one look at the card and, hardened veteran though he was, turned away and fled the room. His partner followed, and found him vomiting in the bushes outside the bank, pale all over and with a look of horror still on his face.

"What is it?" she asked, frightened.

"They never released that crap to the press. It can't be him, but who else would know?"

"What crap? Who would know what?"

"The Joker left a card like that to taunt the cops - to tell us who his next victim was. He's back."

*

Bruce Wayne had been dreading this call for years. It had stolen many nights of sleep from him, and haunted him even as he was mourning Rachel.

"It looks like _him_," Gordon whispered as they stood in the dark and the rain. There was no need to elaborate on who was meant by "him". "It's his signature. Only difference is that he refrained from showing us his face on the security cameras."

"Has anyone been to Arkham to confirm that he's still there?"

"I sent uniforms as soon as I saw, and then I went myself. He's there all right - they've got him on sedatives in the deepest part of the hospital and he's restrained, with two twenty-four hour guards, one inside his room and one out, no way he got out. Nearly didn't recognize him, make-up gone and his hair cut off. Would have been better if you'd just killed him, he's as good as dead now. Didn't even look at me as I came in." It was as close to pity as Gordon would get before he was forcefully reminded of the widows and orphans the Joker had made with his reign of terror. Barbara had suggested a fundraiser just for them.

"Could he be communicating with an accomplice somehow?"

"The Joker with an accomplice?" Gordon asked, and he almost laughed. It was hard to imagine the Joker having an accomplice loyal and sane enough to smuggle information out of Arkham and carry out his devious plans over two years later - and anyway, from what Gordon had said the Joker probably wasn't masterminding very much these days. "Even if there was a big enough idiot, they don't let him talk to anyone on the outside, not that he wants to in that state. I think we're looking at a copycat," Gordon said.

"How is that possible? His calling card was never released to the press."

"But someone could have found out - everyone involved in the investigation knew. Someone might have had loose lips."

"If he's half as good at killing people as the original was ... We have to find him."

"I have a strange feeling - the copycat never took off his mask and the footage is grainy, but something about the way he carried himself, the way the others responded to him ... I think that he may be a she." In all these years of crime fighting, Bruce had never seen a woman with an affinity for violence anywhere close to the Joker's ... then again, he had seen very few men who were half as evil. Whatever the case, a copycat had the potential to be just as terrible as his or her inspiration. That kind of devastation must not be revisited.

"I'll look into it."

*

"Who was responsible for the criminal known as the Joker once he arrived at Arkham, Dr. Quinzel?" the new DA asked gently. Usually, this would have been a job for an ADA - or the judge would have been left to make his own decision and no one from the DA's office would have shown up at all. That probably would have worked out this time - no judge was going to release the Joker from Arkham - but Cale Burciaga was sending a message to the people of Gotham city - they had chosen someone worthy to fill Harvey Dent's shoes. The woman on the stand was composed, in spite of everything. The scars left by the man against whom she was testifying were not readily visible - at least he had done her that small mercy. She refused to look at her attacker, but if she had she would have seen only a shell of the monster everyone had known and feared for one terrifying week a little over two years ago. Of course, he wasn't allowed to wear make-up anymore, and the doctors at Arkham had cleaned him up, cut his hair, and given him clothes a normal person might wear on a day other than Halloween. Stubble had collected on his chin, because the guards had to carefully supervise him shaving and didn't bother to let him do it every day. He was shackled to his chair, but that hardly seemed necessary, considering that the sedatives he had been force-fed left him lifeless and looking as though he would soon fall asleep, right there at the table. Even the evil look in his eyes - along with all semblance of life - was gone. Without looking at him, his psychiatrist answered.

"Many doctors. There was an entire team assigned solely to the Joker."

"He was that ill?"

"That dangerous. Also, I think somebody from the DA's office suspected he was faking insanity."

"Do you think he's faking it, Dr. Quinzel?"

"No. He has delusions of grandeur and a very skewed vision of reality. I believe he is suffering from schizophrenia."

"He hears voices?"

"Not all schizophrenics do, that's a common misperception. Even if schizophrenia isn't the correct diagnosis, there is definitely something very, very wrong."

"Could an insane person really carry out the kinds of plans the Joker has confessed to?"

"Yes. Schizophrenics are usually very intelligent, and he's no exception, he'd easily qualify as a genius. Schizophrenics' insanity comes not from a lack of appreciation for the consequences of their actions, but the fact they are unable to appreciate that said actions are wrong because in their altered reality, their actions make perfect logical and moral sense. He's not faking it. He doesn't belong in prison."

"But he doesn't belong on the streets either."

"Most definitely not. He's a danger to himself and anyone who happens to cross his path."

"Has he tried to hurt himself or others while in Arkham?"

"Many times. Often times, he succeeds."

"What kinds of treatment have been attempted for this patient?"

"Extensive medications, talk therapy, electric shocks. I know very little of his treatment in the past year."

"Electric shocks? They still do that?"

"It's very different these days. The patient is given general anesthesia and the voltage is smaller. I doubted it would work, it works best in individuals with depression and bipolar disorder and neither of those seems to be the problem with J."

"J?"

"The man known as the Joker. He refuses to tell anyone his real name."

"You said J had been given failed medications, exactly how many drugs have you put him on?"

"We've tried over twenty-three medications alone and in various combinations."

"No response at all?"

"We thought we might be getting somewhere with thiothixene but then J attempted to escape. The last I heard about his treatment was that the doctors who still work with him tried clozapine, which seemed to work for a while, but had to take him off because he nearly died from the side effects. Now I believe they're just trying to control him with sedatives."

"And the talk therapy, who administered that?"

"Two different counselors, including myself."

"You were in charge of the many people assigned to J, correct?" The Joker fidgeted with his shackles. Those who bothered to look at him could tell he was chafing at being called "J" by Burciaga.

"Yes. I suggested the medications that were administered to him and I spent more time observing him than any of my colleagues."

"Tell us about him." The Joker's lawyer objected, asking the judge to have Burciaga rephrase the question.

"I apologize. I'll be more specific - how did he treat you?"

"Very well."

"Really?"

"Yes, he was always courteous with me." She paused, fidgeting with the sleeves of her suit, trying to decide whether to go on. Before Burciaga could prod her, she continued. "A few months after I began treating him I realized that he was attracted to me."

"How did you become aware of this?"

"Objection, is this relevant?" The Joker's lawyer demanded.

"Your Honor, this attraction led to violent behavior that demonstrates why the defendant should remain in Arkham Asylum."

"Overruled, answer the question, Dr. Quinzel."

"I interviewed him shortly after he seriously injured another inmate - in self-defense, I believe - and he told me he was sorry I had to deal with this on my birthday. I'd never told him when it was."

"So how did he know?"

"Somehow he had managed to read my file, or had someone else do so and tell him about it. He had often tried to flirt with me before that, but I'd always thought it was just part of who he was until that point."

"Did he ever tell you who he was?"

"He told me many, many versions of his past. He usually changed the subject and asked about mine."

"Did he ever show any remorse for the people he's killed?" There was a long pause.

"Dr. Quinzel?"

"No, no he hasn't."

"If you were in charge of his treatment, why was he given shock therapy even though you didn't believe it would work?"

"As I mentioned earlier, there was an incident where he attacked another inmate. J says it was self-defense and I believe him. He's not exactly ashamed of his violence. He's also a troublemaker - he teases the guards, the other inmates, and so far he's provoked at least three guards, a doctor, and innumerable other patients into attacking him - the guards have to watch him constantly. They have to watch him shave so he doesn't steal the razors and use them as weapons and search his cell and his person every night. He creates chaos everywhere he goes and I think everyone was just getting desperate. I was outvoted."

"You said you didn't know much about his treatment in the past year, why is that, Dr. Quinzel?"

"About a year ago, J tried to escape, and in the course of the escape he assaulted me. After that, I was assigned to other patients."

Burciaga asked for more details about the escape attempt, and Quinzel provided them in a cold, forensic manner, but she finally started to lose the veneer of calm.

"How did the riot begin?"

"I was in my office, reviewing some case notes, and I heard a commotion. I went to the door to check, and I heard someone shout that the Joker had hanged himself with shoelaces, and I ran to his cell to see."

"Why?"

"He was my patient, I was responsible for whatever happened to him. We had just ... I had just put him on a new medication and I thought that was why ... why he would kill himself."

"But when you got to his cell, what did you see?"

"J very much alive and rifling through a dead guard's pockets until he found a knife, the shoelaces still tied around his neck."

"What did he do when he saw you there?"

"Before I could react, he grabbed me and held the knife to my throat, telling me he wished I hadn't been the second person to his cell. He had the guard's gun as well, and he was able to get into the hall without being shot. Apparently, this had been planned for weeks, and some of the other patients had learned how to get out of their cells. When J and I were surrounded, they ... ambushed the guards. When they were all ... gone, he, J, laughed and whispered, 'Come on, darlin', you know I wouldn't have really done it.' I'm not sure if he was referring to committing suicide or killing me, maybe both. But he was in control, at that point, at least of the south wing, and he said he wanted to move us before the guards from other wings came in. He took us into the lower wing, the old hospital."

"Tell us more about that, the old hospital."

"Arkham used to be completely underground. The old hospital is from a very different time. The cells are more like cages and you can see the rings where inmates were chained to the walls. It's like a maze - and electricity was installed in the fifties but the wiring that was down there was stripped when they built the new hospital, so it's dark. Most of the patients think it's haunted and refuse to go there, but I guess they were more afraid of J."

"Once he moved everyone into the old hospital, what did he do?"

"The patients took all the doctors and nurses to various cells and put us inside. They patted us down for weapons and drugs, and most of us were robbed as well. One of my other patients, Katy, brought him some make-up so he put that on right away, and then the others were even more afraid of him. J made one of my colleagues read a script and filmed him with a camera he stole from me. He threatened to murder one of us every thirty minutes that his release wasn't negotiated, starting at sundown. He sent one of the other patients - one who hadn't participated in the riot - with the tape. I hoped that the guards could get in with minimal casualties, but he was too smart for that. J came and placed all the other doctors so that we were all closest to all the entry points, making it impossible to come in with a clean line of fire. He tied them up and told them if they managed to get out he'd let some of the more violent patients have them."

"What about you? Didn't he use you as a shield too?"

"No. He kept me close to him, and told me he'd take me with him because I was his girl." She made a sound of contempt, but her fists were clenched so hard on the witness chair that her knuckles were white.

"So what did you decide to do?"

"I tried to get him to release everyone else, told him to use me as his hostage. He laughed at me and waved me off, and I got angry because he let Katy throw herself at him and then beat her when she got too aggressive, and so I wandered away from his side for a moment, trying to decide how to approach him next and cool off about Katy but ..." she paused, finally looking up at her attacker. He cocked his head, searching her face curiously.

"But what, Dr. Quinzel?" She looked back to the new DA quickly, breaking eye contact with the Joker.

"We were even deeper than most of the others, and there was no one around. I thought I was alone, but one of the other patients grabbed me. I tried to fight him off, but he was too fast and too strong for me. He pushed me against the wall and was biting me - hard enough to scar - and I thought I would die. He told me he wanted to eat my liver. The next thing I knew, J was on top of him, snarling at him to keep his hands off me. Even fighting J, he wouldn't let go of me, and J stabbed him several times, then slit his throat. I thought it was over, but J was excited from the fight and he ..." She looked back at her attacker. He smiled a little bit, and she quickly looked away again.

"Take your time," Burciaga prodded gently.

"He told me he was sorry he let it happen, that he'd lost control of that man. I was surprised at how gentle he was, but he had me against the wall still, and I was grateful but I started to realize he wasn't going to let me up. He started making advances on me and I tried to push him off. He pushed me further into a cell and he hit me a couple of times and then he took out the knife he'd stolen and ... He pulled my lab coat off and cut me on the arms, stomach, and back ... laughing the whole time ... I fought back as hard as I could, but he is very strong. At least, he used to be, prior to the present course of medication. He kissed me, and all I could taste was blood because I'd hit him in the mouth. I hated it." She was shaking now. For a moment, life returned to her assailant's face and, low at first so that only his court-appointed lawyer could hear, he started to laugh. "The more I hit him the more he laughed, the more he liked it, so I just stopped. He kissed me some more and then he asked me if I really was his girl and ..." She trailed off, staring into the distance with a strange look on her face.

"And what, Dr. Quinzel?" Burciaga prodded at last.

"I told him no and he started to cut my wrists so that no one else could have me, but he said he still wanted to have some fun with me before I died. Thankfully, after he slit my left wrist Dr. Thompson arrived and was able to take him by surprise and knock him out with some insulin the patients had let him keep because he was diabetic. Then Dr. Thompson used surgical tape on my wrist to stop the bleeding. The guards came in not long after." Burciaga thanked her and dismissed her from the stand. The laughing got louder, and now everyone could hear. A hateful murmur started to spread through the sickened crowd, and the witness's tears of fear and pain started running faster. She kept her eyes on the ground most of the way, but as she walked by his table she couldn't resist looking up into his soulless eyes.

"You sick monster!" someone from the crowd shouted as she passed him, and the Joker tried to stand up but came to the end of the chains. He just laughed louder, and an attending doctor fumbled for a syringe full of sedative. In a matter of seconds, the laughter was silenced.

*

"I just don't understand why they had to drag her down there to testify. We all know what he did to her," Barbara Gordon fumed, filled with quiet indignation. She was cutting broccoli haphazardly, letting her anger alter the attention she paid to the task.

"I think he did more to her than she admits. They were alone somewhere underneath Arkham for over an hour."

"Jim, you don't think ..."

"Yeah, I do."

"I don't blame her, I wouldn't want everyone to know he did that to me either."

"He wouldn't be alive if he did that to you."

"Don't say that, Jim."

"I mean it. And anyway, it's not just her, I think she's thinking about her son. The timing is right - how would you like your son to know _that_ was his father?"

"Poor kid. Poor, poor kid, if anyone knew ... I wouldn't tell anyone either. So why did they make her testify about it if she can't even tell the whole truth?"

"Burciaga didn't want to take the chance Judge Armstrong would turn him loose. Harleen Quinzel is one of the few who tangled with him and lived to tell the tale. There wasn't a dry eye in the courtroom," Jim answered, looking up from his paper.

"Except his," Barbara muttered. "And you can't tell me Armstrong would have loosed the clown again, after what happened to Surillo."

"Judges are unpredictable," he replied, turning back to his paper. "And yes, he's still, in one spectator's elegant words, the same sick monster he's always been."

"They gave him a chance to relive what he did to her, and dragged her into it too. Why can't they just give him lethal injection and see who's laughing then?"

"The Joker was diagnosed as a schizophrenic by the doctors at Arkham, and the Supreme Court has said that, unfortunately, you can't execute schizos no matter how many cops, judges, ADAs, and innocent bystanders they murder."

"You think voices told him to do all that?"

"Not for one minute, I think he just lied to keep himself alive. I don't doubt he could do it well enough to fool anybody. But that's what worries me, what kind of life does he have now?"

"Don't tell me you feel sorry for him."

"Only until I think about the forty-four of my men he blew away. No ... surely he didn't plan on going to Arkham forever. He tried to get Batman to kill him several times, obviously he's not so desperate to live he'd rather be on a saline drip and sedatives for the rest of his sorry existence than take the death penalty."

"You think he's planning on getting out someday."

"I know that's what he's planned. I don't think he can, but ... it'd be easier for me to sleep at night if he were dead."

*

The death of his known friend had provided an adequate reason for Bruce to do good as Bruce Wayne. No one was surprised when he donated several million to the Gotham City Police Widows and Orphans fund directly and started college funds for some of the older kids, or singlehandedly funded the rebuilding of Gotham General Hospital. They were a bit more surprised when he actually gave his time as well, but even that only lead to quiet whispers of, "Poor man. Everyone says Harvey Dent's fiancée was his friend."

Gotham never forgave Batman for the murders that had really been committed by Two-Face. Even as criminals continued being brought down and the mob went further into retreat, Batman was the most hated man in Gotham. But even as they hated Batman more and more, they learned to love Bruce Wayne. He often tried to be anonymous, but there's only so many people who can afford to put the full asking amount into a charity account for a small child with leukemia or a premature baby in need of special surgery or build entire sports complexes for inner-city kids.

Not that Bruce Wayne was completely tamed - he was known to show up at parties and fundraisers with three or even four gorgeous dates - two at fundraisers for more conservative charities.

*

The bank was closed for lunch - that was one marked difference between the original and the copycat, the copycat actually tried to minimize casualties. "So who is this guy?" one of the thugs asked, safely behind a mask. If the police would release the details of the crimes, common criminals might be less enthusiastic to sign up for these jobs.

"I heard it's a lady," one of the others answered. There were three in the car, and the third failed to contribute to the conversation.

"No way."

"Supposedly she was the Joker's girl before he came to Gotham." Not exactly. The second clown scoffed, and the third remained silent.

Everything was going according to plan - no one tried to be a hero, the clowns proved just as stupid as always, and as usual lots of money was being collected. It was all according to plan until two clowns were left when something unexpected happened. Unexpected, but not unwelcome.

A young man came crashing - literally - through the large glass windows at the bank's front, and for a moment the silent clown thought it was the real deal and geared up for the fight of a lifetime. But the person who stumbled to his feet was smaller than the real Batman, and his suit had a homemade look to it. He scuffled with the other clown which avoided the always awkward moment of realization the last man standing had, and the fake Batman seemed surprised when the clown went down, and examined his hands as though frightened he had killed him accidentally. Then he turned to face the last clown, who had put down the gun in order to have a more personal confrontation, and relished the irony of it. Two copycats about to be locked in mortal combat ... and thanks to the security cameras, it would all be on Youtube within days. "Hands up!" he ordered, and it was almost embarrassing how young his voice sounded. She would guess he was in his mid twenties at the oldest. She just laughed then, and he was taken aback. She knew there was no sound on the security cameras, there never was, so she didn't have to worry about voice identification.

"You're ..."

"Yes, I'm a woman, how observant of you." It was then that he noticed her figure, still undeniably feminine in spite of the steps she had taken to disguise it. Before he could make a lame excuse about not hitting a woman, she went after him with one of the many knives she kept in her pockets.

The scuffle was short and brutal, but far from fatal. She knew she didn't have much time, so she had to decide what to do with him quickly. He was physically stronger than her, but unarmed, and she definitely had an advantage. She decided to let him live, just for sport. It seemed a shame to kill him quickly, and she didn't have time to linger. She made another nonfatal stab that sent him to the ground, writhing in pain, and then she made her big exit. If anything, he had saved her time, what with breaking out the windows. By the time the police got there, she would be long gone and the wannabe Batman would be in serious pain and in need of medical attention but not serious danger.

*

"Do you think you could identify her voice if you heard it again?" the detective asked. The young man was in the ER, receiving stitches for several rather deep cuts. It had been the immediate, silent agreement among the police officers that they were going to let the fact the young man was dressed as Batman slide, and just question him about what had happened with the copycat.

"Yeah, I think so," the man answered, somewhat abashed. He was handsome, with curly brown hair and large brown eyes. "Look, I don't know, you don't have police artists for just voices do you?"

"No, but you are sure it was a woman?" The detective was a woman, probably in her forties, a lieutenant, with short brown hair that had been highlighted, probably to hide some gray, and she had blue eyes that twinkled a little mischievously when they came to parts of the story that required glossing over the costume the witness had been wearing when they found him. In fact, he was still wearing part of it.

"Yes ma'am, yes, she had ... the voice was definitely female, okay." She smiled at him and winked.

"Her voice, right. And she kept her mask on the entire time?"

"Yes. Wait a minute, I do remember something else … She had an accent."

"What kind of accent."

"Southern."

"Southern like from Georgia or from Texas or … where?"

"There's a difference?"

"Never mind."

Someone the young man really didn't want to see entered the room then. It had been awkward enough trying to pretend he wasn't dressed as Gotham's Most Wanted when he was just dealing with one detective, but he really didn't want to see the Police Commissioner at the moment.

"Lieutenant Essen?" Gordon asked, surprised, before taking in the other copycat sitting on the hospital bed while a nurse frowned and continued stitching.

"You've forgotten my transfer request already, Commissioner?" she asked, and the young man didn't miss the flirtation in her voice. Commissioner Gordon was happy to see her, but the flirtation was obviously unwelcome from the way he lowered his eyes when she said that. Well, good for you, Commissioner, he thought. One less unfaithful husband in the world.

"I believe your orders said you were starting next week, Lieutenant," he answered smoothly, and she knew she'd overstepped her bounds and was embarrassed. He guessed she hadn't meant to. Gordon looked past her to the young man, and his eyes passed briefly over the remnants of the outfit he had been wearing, but he didn't say anything.

"What's your name, son?"

"Jason, Jason Todd."

"Brave thing you did."

"Not very smart though, I thought …"

"It would be easier?"

"Yeah," Jason said sheepishly.

"How did you know what was happening?"

"I …" Jason was pretty sure the next part was illegal, but he figured he was already in hot water as it was. "I, uh, I've been listening in on a police scanner. I was close to the bank and I saw a chance to do something right, for once."

"You're very lucky, if my men hadn't gotten here when they did you could have bled out."

"I think she was counting on that, honestly. She could have hurt me so much worse if she wanted to."

"She?"

"Yes, Commissioner, we've now established that the copycat is a woman, you were right. Jason here told us something else interesting, might help us narrow down the suspect pool."  
"What's that?"

"Our copycat has an accent, a southern accent."

"Can you narrow it down for us, Jason?" Gordon asked, turning back to face him.

"I'm afraid not, I've always kind of thought a southern accent was a southern accent."

"Did she sound like President Bush or President Clinton?"

"Neither."

"Was her accent thick?"

"No."

"Beverly Hillbillies or Scarlett O'Hara?" Lt. Essen watched, obviously impressed with him.

"Um, closer to Scarlett I guess."

"That's very helpful, Jason, that eliminates several states."

"Glad I could help," Jason said, and the two shook hands.

*

"Eliminates one theory, too," Jim said as he left the hospital room, closely followed by Sarah.

"Which is?"

"Knowing our copycat has an accent rules out the idea she's a relative."

"Not necessarily, they could be siblings who were raised apart."

"Yes, but that's unlikely."

"So is everything else about the Joker, Jim." He decided to let it slide. They had been partners once, after all.

"Good to have you back, Sarah."

*

Bruce sat cross-legged on his bed, pouring over the information Gordon had forwarded to him, wondering where to begin. "You should talk to the boy," Gordon had scribbled on a piece of paper tucked with a photo of the copycat and a copy of his statement. Another copycat, great, and here he thought he was done with those. As though Gordon had read his mind, the note continued, "This one is different. No guns, no lethal force, actually did a pretty good job. See if you can get any more information out of him." Bruce looked again at the young man's photograph, and after a while, he decided it wouldn't hurt anything to ask him.

*

Barbara was mortified by her daughter, but Burciaga smiled and played along. "Oh no, I've been unmasked!" she said, and consented to letting little Barbara handcuff her with a bright yellow plastic toy version of the real tool, and then lead her away, talking over her shoulder to the Commissioner all the while. Once Jimmy appeared to usher his little sister back into her room, and both the children were safely out of earshot, the tone of the conversation grew more serious.

"I have to say, Commissioner, as much as I hate the idea that the Batman has yet to answer for his crimes, I'm also disturbed by the amount of resources going towards his discovery while a Joker copycat has everyone afraid to go out at night." Gordon toyed for just the briefest moment with telling her the truth, but instead the familiar lie rolled off his tongue. It was seeming less and less strange, and that bothered him.

"He murdered your predecessor," he said bluntly.

"And the Joker killed my predecessor's fiancée and left him for dead. If Harvey were here now, he'd want us to focus on this copycat and finishing off the mob." Gordon playacted at mulling it over a moment, and then answered,

"I agree. Starting tomorrow, a substantial portion of the Batman task force will be reassigned to the Joker copycat."


	3. Chapter 2: Ghosts

Chapter 2

Ghosts

**I do not own any of these characters, settings, etc. If I did, I would not be going to UTPB.**

_It took Satan himself to bring down Eve, it only took a woman to bring down Adam. – Rick Hamby, wise Government teacher_

Jack reached for his cousin's hand, curiously feeling her cold fingers with his own warm ones. Usually, his aunt would have smiled and remarked on the sweetness of it, but instead she pulled him away with a loud, "No," and chided her daughter. Beth frowned, nonplussed, and wrapped the blanket tighter around herself. Lydia knew it was ridiculous - Jack was just a baby, and her own flesh and blood - but she was frightened of him. He didn't have his father's eyes - Lydia had trained herself to be grateful for small mercies. But he had his mother's. As of right now, there was nothing other than infantile curiosity hidden behind those eyes, but Lydia knew that odds were against him. Lydia feared one day looking at her nephew's eyes to find her sister's madness looking out - or worse, his father's.

She paced the room, dreading her husband's return. "What, Jack staying with us again?" he would ask, trying to hide his disapproval. He thought Harleen was a workaholic, or that she had taken to drinking. He didn't know about his wife's secret suspicions, her torment - he hadn't seen the way Harleen's smile had become more absent than ever, the way she started to leave her hair down and put on make-up, how she had started to eat and drink and laugh like she hadn't in years, how she had laughed when Arkham called during dinner with the Joker on the other end of the supervised call, how she'd suddenly become the lady she'd never been before. Then he'd ask about Beth's condition and shake his head. Then he would hint, darkly, that they couldn't afford to feed Jack all the time with all of Beth's medical bills, disguised as comments about how big Jack was getting and questions about what he ate. It didn't matter that Jack was still on the bottle, which Harleen left with him every day or that she gave them large sums of money on any occasion she could think of, Bill would make ugly remarks about how expensive "it" was, and allude to the woefully wrong idea that Harleen didn't know who "its" father was. (If only that were true.) Then he would take out the paper, make that insufferable clucking sound with his tongue, and comment about another Joker copycat robbery, fail to notice the sweat gathering on his wife's forehead at the mention, make derogatory remarks about Gotham's police force, Commissioner Gordon in particular, and suggest moving to a safer place. Somewhere back down south. Lydia would make a weak stand for staying here for her sister, and Bill would snort and comment that he didn't see why they had to pay for her bad decisions. Lydia would try to defend her sister, and it would end with Bill insulting his wife directly instead of bothering with the niceties of mocking her family, and Lydia and Beth would both be crying and Bill would yell at them to stop. Then someone would get hit and no matter who it was Beth would cry herself to sleep.

She paused when she thought she heard him at the door, bracing herself for the fight ahead, and wondered, for just the briefest of moments, what it would feel like to give into the madness that ran in the family.

Then she smiled and went to Jack, picked him up, and held him for a long time, fully intending to love away his parents' insanity.

*

"Mind if I smoke, Miss?" He was a tall man, with black hair and dark brown eyes and an olive complexion, and he looked nothing like one expected a mob boss to look. His face was soft-featured and handsome, with a genuinely sweet smile. But anyone who saw him and assumed that he was a nice man was sorely mistaken.

"Not at all." Julius Burciaga took a long, hard drag on the illegally imported Cuban cigar he was smoking, and breathed out an enormous cloud of smoke. Apparently, the cigar gave him comfort in the face of his son's much-hated choices in music. "Anthony, can you turn that crap down?" he barked. "I'm trying to do business, son." The obnoxious little brat actually turned the music up, so that Harley had to listen to some kid - a boy, but he sounded like he was twelve though he was probably older - whining about something at the top of his lungs, all set to off-key guitar playing and off-tempo drumming.

"Kids these days - what is appealing about that?" Julius asked rhetorically, shaking his head dramatically and taking another drag on the cigar. "You got any kids?"

She paused, considering carefully how much information she was going to reveal to him. "A son."

"How old?"

"Seven months."

"Ah. These are some good times - they can't talk back to you yet. Anthony just turned thirteen, but you'd think he was seventeen to hear him talk. So, what do you want me to call you?"

"Harley will work all right." Julius studied the woman sitting across his desk from him. She was in her thirties, and from what little of her face he could see she was beautiful, with fair skin. Her lips were full and blood red, and she smiled a little all the time, as though her mouth was permanently pulled up in a strange, calm smile. She wore a mask that covered most of her face - it reminded him of the one that you saw the court jester wearing in old movies. Other than that she was dressed low-key - tight black pants, a red blouse, and a long black trench coat. He laughed a little to think how some of the mob bosses in Gotham would react to be in his position - probably scared out of their wits just to be in the company of the Joker's girlfriend. There had been a time when everyone, even other mobsters, had feared anyone who could call themselves a Gotham mob boss - but now all the Gotham families were a joke, and a bad one at that. No, Julius Burciaga was not so afraid of the Joker that he didn't wonder what, exactly, the Joker was going to do about someone messing with his fine girl while he was locked up in Arkham Asylum.

"All right then," he echoed faintly, tasting her light Southern accent in his own Italian-American mouth. When she spoke normally, she could get rid of her native accent, but in this new, strange voice she had found, deeper and darker than her own, somehow Southern cadences found their way through. Harley found it odd that men, even J, often ended up echoing her. "What kind of deal did you want to talk about, exactly?"

"As you know, Mr. Burciaga, Gotham's crime families are a little, well, disintegrated, at the present time."

"Your man did a lot of that."

"Yes, he did."

"Given that piece of information, I have to wonder why you think I would help you with anything."

"If they hadn't tried to cross him, the Joker would have let them alone."

"And as long as I don't try to cross you, I'm supposed to believe I'll be all right?"

"Are you frightened of me?" He nearly came out of his chair.

"Of course not."

"Are you frightened of him?"

"No. Well, yes, admittedly, who wouldn't be scared of him? I'm man enough to admit that, but not enough I'd give up anything worth having." He smiled, wondering if the Joker was a jealous man and not really caring about the answer. She broke his gaze quickly, and continued with her negotiations in complete composure. He couldn't tell how she felt about him, so he decided not to press his luck just yet.

"I think I can offer you something, Mr. Burciaga."

"Really," he said through a cloud of smoke, laughing a little.

"Gotham." He actually laughed a little, but then saw that she was serious.

"Oh, really?" he asked, repeating himself. "How are you going to do that, because if you don't mind my saying, it seems as though the keys to the city would be a little out of your reach."

"Not as far out of reach as you think. Haven't you wondered, Mr. Burciaga, what it would be like to be a real King? Not of a neighborhood or a territory, but of an entire city." She watched him run his tongue over his teeth beneath his lips, considering her proposition with greed. Before he could ask another question, she cut him off with her explanation. "People do stupid things when they're scared. If the police are all looking for me, they'll be less likely to notice that a new don has moved in, won't they? And now's the perfect time to do it - all the families are still trying to rebuild after the ... unpleasantness ... of two and a half years ago. And if they think I'm in your employ, they'll be even more afraid of you after what happened to the Chechen. And law enforcement - aside from being distracted, won't they be afraid to risk soiling the reputation of their new DA, on whom they've pinned all their hopes? You'd think they'd learn, DA's in Gotham never last long." He bristled a bit at the last part, and seeing his expression, she added, "All the more reason for you to take over the criminal enterprises in Gotham. Give your little sister some protection by proxy." He considered everything she said, and found nothing immediately suspicious in it, other than it just flat out seemed too good to be true.

"So why do you need me?" he asked, careful not to sound too accusing. She seemed easy to handle - but he didn't relish the thought of being fed to his own dogs.

"At risk of selling myself short, I've done well thus far, but I'm not exactly the same kind of genius as the Joker. I have a rather ambitious plan, but I need a crew for it, besides the daring dimwits I've scrounged up for the bank robberies. Also, I'm afraid I don't have his talent for explosives." He smiled, knowing he could very well be making a deal with the devil, but throwing caution to the wind. He thought briefly of the boy listening to horrible music in the next room, and of the boy's little siblings, but as usual he pushed them to the back of his mind.

"What you need my men to do?" he asked, standing up and reaching across the desk for a handshake.

*

Jason Todd's apartment was in a bad part of town, and the building looked like it was falling apart. Jason made his way up the stairs and Batman followed, silent as always. Jason turned a key in the door, still limping a little from the gash in his leg he had received from the Joker copycat. Batman followed, and Jason still didn't suspect anything. That didn't bode well if he was going to be out fighting crime the way Jason seemed to think he would be.

"Jason Todd?" he asked, as though it were necessary to confirm his identity. Jason jumped nearly a foot and spun on his heel.

"B-B-Batman?" he stammered, and the look on his face was a mixture of surprise, fear, and insane pleasure. He wasn't sure how to introduce himself, but that was okay because Jason did it for him. "I'm … You're … You're my biggest hero … I can't believe you're actually here …"

"Does it bother you at all to know that I am a wanted murderer?"

"Don't screw with me like that, I've been over the timeline over and over again, there's no way you could have kicked the Joker's butt at the Prewitt building and kidnapped Commissioner Gordon's family – that happened practically at the same time." So, at least the kid's admiration wasn't blind.

"What can you tell me about the woman you fought at First National?"

"The crazy chick? I don't know, there's a lot of rumors going around she's like the Joker's girlfriend or something, and …" Was this how movie stars felt _all the time_?

"I'm aware of that, Jason, what I lack is an actual encounter with her, and I was wondering what you could tell me."

"Well, like I told Commissioner Gordon, she had a southern accent, but I was thinking about it, and I'm pretty sure I've heard her voice somewhere before."

"Any idea where?"

"On TV, I think."

"On TV …" He certainly hoped their best shot at a lead on this case was not getting the copycat mixed up with some random actress.

"Like on a newscast or something." Thank you God. "All right, that's good, Jason, any idea _where_?"

"No, I just … I know I've heard it before."

"All right, Jason, here's what I want you to do. Go to the station and tell Gordon this and watch every newscast in the past few years you can get your hands on, and as soon as you think you might recognize her voice you let him know, do you understand?"

"Yes sir," Jason said, looking very excited to have been given a task by the Batman. Batman disappeared as quickly as he could.

*

"Dr. Crane?" Harley called, peering around the corner. Her guard was up - she didn't know how paranoid her old mentor had become after being exposed to his own medicine.

"Harleen Quinzel?" a voice called, questioning. "What ..."

"Don't worry, I'm not here for the police or Arkham," she said quickly, before he could shoot her or do something else stupid. She should have come armed more heavily - she was kicking herself now.

"Harleen, what ..." he sounded excited. He had drooled over her before, what was Johnny going to do when he saw her now in a low-cut shirt? Maybe she should have changed before she came. He came around the corner, obviously expecting the uptight psychiatrist who never put on make-up or did anything with her hair except put it up in a bun, probably wondering how she managed to find him and worried about the security of his hiding place. She couldn't see his face under the burlap sack he wore over his head these days, but she imagined the look on his face was priceless when instead he saw a femme fatale dressed to kill with a black harlequin mask pulled over her face instead.

"Is it safe here?" she asked, cutting him off.

"Yes, but ... you're the one who ..."

"You mind if I come in then, instead of sitting out here in the dark with the cops and Batman?" He didn't answer. He was actually speechless. She wasn't sure if it was because she definitely should have worn a different top or because of the startling revelation it must have been for Johnny that a former coworker had gone to the dark side as well. He gestured at her to follow, and she did swiftly. He moved what had looked like the kind of cardboard box homeless people picked up to live in to reveal a trap door. He lifted the lid effortlessly - one thing about it, Johnny wasn't as scrawny as he had been when they had worked together - and gestured at her to go first. He always had been a gentleman. She went to the door and saw the ladder leading down, and slid onto it, thankful for the fact she had chosen to wear practical shoes instead of heels. Johnny followed, carefully shutting the door so the box was still on top to conceal it. It was pitch black, and Harley had to feel her way from rung to rung, with no idea of how far down the ladder went.

"How far down does the ladder go, Dr. Crane?" she asked. "Or would you rather I call you Scarecrow?"

"Only a little further, and call me Johnny. I'm sorry, I should have gone first, I'm so used to scurrying up and down ... This used to be a private bomb shelter in the fifties, before the Narrows went to hell. I doubt anyone, even the city planners, know anything is down here anymore." Harley finally felt her foot touch the ground and she hopped down and backed up so Johnny could get down. He fumbled in the dark a minute, and then there was a dim light and another door. He had pulled off his mask on the way down, and she saw a tiny hint of jealousy written there, though as usual he hid his emotions pretty well.

"So what do I call you, Dr. Quinzel or Mrs. Joker?" he asked as he opened the door for her.

"How about Harley?" she asked as she passed through the door, sensing even more of Johnny's jealousy and trying to figure out how she could use it against him.

"I don't believe I've ever heard you referred to by that name before," he said. It wasn't as though they had been best friends - he had been a doctor at Arkham when she interned there, and he had taken it upon himself to show her the ropes. She had known almost from the get-go his interest was more than professional, and she had been flattered at the time, but too intimidated, after so many rejections, to act on it But after J, no man seemed quite as impressive (and that little stunt he had pulled with his "therapy" that was supposed to make her unafraid certainly hadn't helped), and at the moment he was annoying her.

"They called me that in high school."

"What does he call you?"

"Harley. Harley Quinn, like a harlequin jester. How did you know?" She pulled off the mask and let down her hair - best to put Johnny in a good mood, even if it galled her. She took off her coat too, even though it was cold. They were standing in a room with concrete walls, brightly lit now, with sparse furniture. There was a generator, a couch, a small glass coffee table, and a little television that Harley had a strange suspicion didn't get used very much, as well as a book shelf that, in spite of the fact its owner was on the run, was overflowing with books. There were doors that, presumably, led into other rooms. She threw the jacket on the back of the couch and sat down, Johnny sitting on the other end.

"I'd heard rumors that the Joker copycat everyone is talking about was a woman who had been the Joker's lover, but I never thought they were more than rumors - and I certainly never guessed that that woman would be you until you showed up at my door. So, is it true?"

"That I've been robbing banks with his MO? No, Johnny, I just thought I'd dress like this and seek out a disgraced former colleague for kicks." She was trying really hard not to be abrasive, but it was in her nature. J loved that about her.

"I had guessed that much. I was referring to the latter part of the story." She laughed a little.

"Yes, Johnny, that's true. J said that you two knew each other." Johnny laughed bitterly.

"If by 'knew each other' you mean he completely screwed me over and left me for dead, then, yes, we knew each other." He saw the startled look on her face and smiled a little, then launched into an explanation. "After the incident at the Narrows, I found it prudent to keep myself hidden, considering I was one of Gotham's most wanted and Carmine Falcone's daughter was rather unhappy with her father's current condition. I was working with various former patients – the Madness Mafia, that was Maroni's nickname for it - and a man who insisted on wearing face paint like a clown, dressed in purple, and had one of the most dramatic Glasgow grins I've ever seen showed up with one of my crew, claimed responsibility for several rather lethal bank robberies, and offered me a cut of the money and protection from Falcone's family and the cops in exchange for access to my men and explosives. I agreed, and looked forward to watching him outwit the mobsters, and went about my business."

"Poisoning innocent high school kids." It was so cowardly – at least when you killed someone with a knife you had to look them in the eye.

"Poisoning spoiled little rich brats who got everything handed to them because they could throw a football who were stupid enough to buy already toxic substances from strangers," he retorted, and Harley bit her lip. So, Johnny had had a way of targeting specific victims. "I went to a meeting with a drug lord who was, let's just say, unhappy, with that practice and had a run in with the Batman. I was expecting the Joker to carry through on his end of the deal, but of course he never came. I managed to get away from the police on my own while I was at central booking, and I headed back to my lair to let the Joker have it, and …"

"He was long gone."

"Oh no, he was still there, but he had helped himself to the rest of my crew, my supplies … you get the idea. I might have lost my temper at that point, and as a consequence my better judgment, and attacked a man considerably larger than myself who carries a wide array of weaponry." He watched her, studying her reaction before he went on.

"He let you live?" Harley was impressed with J's mercy, she didn't think he had any in him.

"Stabbed me in the chest, missed my heart, watched me splutter and moan in pain a little, and then decided I was too amusing to kill and patched me up and threw me into a gutter, literally." He undid the top few buttons on his shirt and pulled it open, revealing the ugly scar. If it had missed his heart it had missed it by centimeters.

"He patched you up?"

"Yes, he was surprisingly good at it." Harley felt like she should leave.

"I wasn't aware of the, uh, nature of your relationship, I guess I should …"

"Don't worry about it. I would have killed him if I was strong enough, and he spared me. And anyway, he also killed a good number of my enemies. I consider us even." Harley doubted very seriously that Johnny really considered them even, but she thought she knew what his motive for saying otherwise might be. "My only question, Harley, is this. Does he treat you well?"

"Yes." Johnny looked at the scars on her arms, now very visible without her coat (another good reason to have kept it on), and gave her a skeptical look. "There's a perfectly good reason for these, Johnny."

"I'm sure there is."

"He's mine, Johnny, he's the only man who's ever been good to me." She shouldn't have said that - she was practically inviting him to bring up the times he had asked her out.

"Good to you? It looks like ..."

"He's the father of my child, Johnny, I'm not going to leave him in Arkham to rot." Johnny gritted his teeth, but accepted this answer.

"So, why did you seek out a disgraced former colleague? Companionship?"

"Partially, yes," she lied effortlessly. It wasn't a big lie - it really would be nice to talk to Johnny for a change - instead of idiots like Burciaga (both of them) and Lydia, with her psychotic devotion to Bill that she insisted was normal. "You're the only other former psychiatrist slash criminal mastermind I know, and you were my mentor once before, I was hoping you could show me how things are done." He had a great poker face, but she saw the little flicker in his eyes that meant he was pleased. He slid down the couch a little.

"Didn't he teach you that?"

"Yes. But we didn't have time to discuss the details."

"And what was the other reason?"

"Firstly, I need an alibi. I can't keep telling my sister I have to work when I leave my son with her, if the police start asking around they won't have to work hard to know I lied about that. If I tell her I have a boyfriend and a man 'accidentally' answers my cell phone a few times, she'll believe me, and it'll be harder for the police to check." She watched him grit his teeth again, and knew that she had gotten under his skin.

"Anyone could do that for you," he said bitterly. And here she'd been hoping he'd like the idea of being someone's boy toy.

"Yes, but no one else is as interesting or unlikely to rat me out to the police. And besides, you still haven't heard the primary reason for my visit today. Do you still make that fear toxin, Johnny, the kind that got you in trouble last time?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. It took a while to find something to replace the blue flower I received from the League of Shadows, but I know how to recreate the effects artificially now."

"If you were to make a rather large batch for me, you would be very well compensated." She reached into the pocket of the coat she had slung over the back of the couch and retrieved a large wad of hundred dollar bills, and handed it to Johnny, who was now even closer to her. "That's just the down payment," she said, knowing he was perfectly capable of obtaining his own money and hoping he wouldn't shy away from so much easy cash. "The whole thing will be ten times that, and there's probably some great experimental data in the thing as well." He took the bills, pausing unnecessarily when their hands touched, and ran his fingers over the edge of them like a stack of cards, and then he smiled.

"I would be happy to oblige, Harley," he said, putting the money on the table. "Do you mind if I inquire what you plan to use it for?"

"I'd love to tell you, Johnny, in fact I think you'll rather enjoy it." It was easy to ignore the way he looked at her - she just imagined what J would do to Johnny if he caught him looking at her that way.

**A/N: Okay, I promise some good action is coming soon, and for those of you more interested in how the Joker seduced Harley I'm going to publish a separate fic about that.**


	4. Chapter 3: Tricks

Chapter 3

Tricks

**These characters (except my originals) are all property of DC comics, except Rachel who is property of Warner Bros. I guess I own the originals but it's not like I'm making any money off them.**

**A/N: Just a heads up, Chapter Two was revised a little while before posting this chapter. The revised portion comes in the scene between Harley and Johnny, and certain parts of this chapter will not make sense if you haven't read the revision. I got inspiration while watching the Gotham Tonight sketches on the special edition DVD of TDK.**

**A/N II: Sorry for the horrible delay on this, I have been working thirty hours a week and trying to maintain music practice and go to college orientations and family reunions and such. I shall try to get the next chapter out with more promptness.**

_The things about practical jokes, they're actually very impractical. – Tom Bergeron._

The demolition man Julius had given Harley was a huge man – taller than J and broader than Harley and J standing side by side. His face was covered in acne scars, which made him look very young, though he was probably in his forties. Harley was wearing the same thing she'd worn to go see Johnny, but she hadn't told the man her name and there was no way he'd recognize a harlequin - the only harlequin he knew was probably his wife's paperback romances. Even if he got picked up by cops, he wouldn't be able to tell them much more than the Batman copycat.

"You sure you wanna do this?" he asked, a little nervously.

"No, I'm not sure at all, that's why I've spent four hours covering for you while you rigged the thing."

"There's going to be all kinds of traffic at seven, people going out to eat …"

"I know that."

"You don't seem like the kind to be killin' people, that's all." Now, how would he possibly know that? Of course, she knew what he really meant - she was a woman, and women were supposedly the gentler sex.

"I do what I have to."

"Does the Joker treat you well?"

"Why does everyone ask that?"

"A guy blows up a hospital and kills his own thugs and you think people won't wonder how he treats his woman?"

"I don't know why you care, but yes, he does."

"How'd a girl like you get mixed up with him?"

"Ever hear that curiosity killed the cat?" The man shut up instantly, and Harley sat back and waited. "How do you set off the bomb?" she asked after awhile.

"Just push this button."

The flash, the noise, everything was more exhilarating than she expected, and she let out a shout of triumph, one that almost sounded like the Rebel Yell those historical recreationists did at those mock Civil War battles a particularly boring boyfriend used to take her to. The overpass crashed to the ground with a loud noise, taking several cars with it but she tried not to think about that, and it was beautiful, just like J had told her. She wished he was here to see it. The Yell became laughter, a wild high-pitched laugh like she hadn't laughed since she was a child.

*

"In other news, everyone is on edge this morning after the collapse of the East Milton Freeway, thought to be the work of the Joker copycat." Mike Engel's voice was as strong and reassuring as ever, in spite of being held hostage by the Joker. Jim admired him for his courage, but he still thought the man was dumber than dirt. Even being rescued by Batman hadn't improved Engel's outlook on him at all – most of the recent newscasts had contained hints that Batman wasn't doing enough to stop this copycat. It was early in the morning, and Jim was having coffee in his office while he looked through reports. He had gone to bed late last night and then been up since two hours ago – he wasn't planning on sleeping much until this woman was caught.

Sarah entered Jim's office bearing an armload of files and yet more coffee. From the look on her face, things weren't going too well with her search – she had been organizing detectives to search for and interview low-level thugs who might have had contact with the Joker when he came to Gotham, conducting a good number of the interviews herself.

"Get me up to speed, Sarah, what do we have so far?"

"Surprisingly, Jim, most of the people who've had encounters with the Joker and lived to tell the tale don't want to talk to us. Based on what little we've been able to get out of a few enforcers looking for mail privileges, they've never seen him with a woman of any description, let alone one matching ours. Jim, even if we had more information about his background, I think this might be a dead end."

"Why's that?"

"I don't think it's someone he even knows. I asked Dr. Quinzel if he ever mentioned any family or girlfriends, and of course she wouldn't tell me but she did say she thought we might be barking up the wrong tree – apparently he's got quite the following in Arkham and he gets fan mail like you wouldn't believe – he's even gotten marriage proposals and nude photos from some adventurous young ladies. The doctors don't let him see any of it, but he knows about it." Jim was disgusted but not horribly surprised – he'd heard Ted Bundy got his share of marriage proposals and some Satanist mass murderer had actually gotten married in prison. But at least Bundy and the Satanist were relatively cute – he could see how an extremely shallow person could fall for them. But what was the big attraction with the Joker?

"Does she think any of them are smart and crazy enough to pull off something like this?"

"She says most of them are just needy college kids and desperate housewives – but a couple of them have been pretty frightening."

"All right, ask Arkham if they're willing to turn the letters over and have detectives run down the senders and see if any of them are plausible suspects, and see if any female inmates who fit the age and height parameters have been released from Arkham recently. Sarah, does that make any sense to you?" She looked up from the list of leads and things to check she was busy amending, confused.

"The order? Yeah, that's what I expected you to …"

"No, I mean, all those girls in love with him like that?"

"Why do you think that would make sense to me, Jim?" she asked angrily. Sarah had had to put up with a lot of crap from male officers when she started out – she was tough as nails but sensitive when it came to implying she was a slut, a butch, or crazy, and Jim should have known that question was going to come across as either the former, the latter, or both.

"Not you specifically, just, I mean, in a woman's opinion, is he good-looking at all?"

"I've always been more into brunettes, myself, green just doesn't do it for me. I don't know, Jim, maybe underneath the make-up and without the scars, but I wouldn't know about that, why are you asking me?"

"I just … I never noticed and I was wondering if I was the only one who is confused by … Forget it, it doesn't matter."

"No, it might help us look if we knew. My guess would be – my guess, because even then it doesn't make sense – if her dad beat the crap out of her all the time, she'd like a guy who'd probably do the same to her, she'd be looking for a dominating personality. Or, given the level of psychosis we've seen already, it might be an already homicidal freak with a sick sense of humor just looking for a kindred spirit. For all I know it could be a girl with a clown fetish or something, I have no idea."

"What if it is a relative like we were thinking earlier, why is she doing this?"

"If she's his sister, madness probably runs in the family. She could just be taking up his mantle – or maybe hoping to end up in a cell next to him."

"That could be a wannabe lover's motive too. It'd all make a lot more sense if we knew who he was."

"I've been thinking about that, Jim …" How did she always know before he even suggested anything? "I talked to the ME, he says an injury like that, a Chelsea smile, would've required medical attention. I've sent notices to ER's all across the country, asking if they've had any white males come in with injuries like the Joker's in the past thirty years, and I've used the national crime database to ask police stations to let us know if they have a file on the same thing."

"And so far?"

"Surprisingly, quite a few hits. I've been hunting down the victims – most of them are alive, well, and not sitting in Arkham asylum."

"Any possibility someone could have fixed him up at home or kept it quiet?"

"It's possible, but if that's the case there definitely won't be a police report. If we're ever going to find him, we'd better hope that's not what happened."

"I wish we knew. I want to give him a name." She looked at him, curious, and he knew she'd want more of an explanation. "Everyone is so afraid of him – even the police here. He's locked up in Arkham, but everyone is still afraid, and this copycat has everyone paralyzed and she's not as deadly. If I could give him a name, a childhood, parents – I could make him human, I could take away so much of his power. If everyone knew he was just another punk whose mommy didn't hug him enough or whatever his lame excuse is for all that crap he put everyone through, he'd find it a lot harder to start a panic just by showing his ugly face."

"Seems like everyone has a legitimate reason to fear him, Jim."

"You didn't see him in court – everyone crowds in to see him, but they're scared out of their wits. He's shackled and drugged and they're still afraid of him, and the copycat is scaring the hell out of everyone just by using his image. Everyone is panicked, and that's going to make everything harder – we'll have to keep every suspect name out of the papers or we're liable to have a lynch mob."

"I see your point." Sarah's mobile phone rang, and she answered. "Lieutenant Garza?" she listened for awhile, and the look on her face was one that told him she had something, something important. "Okay, where is that? First National? Thanks for the heads up." She hung up, the look on her face now like she was on the hunt.

"That was Garza from narcotics, one of his undercover guys has a contact who's going on one of these robberies at First National."

"Has no one figured out what's happening to these guys yet?"

"That's the thing, Garza says its all any of his men's contacts can talk about. But she's getting more and more desperate men – and some of them think she's picked up a permanent crew now."

"From where?" Jim asked, never ceasing to be amazed at the criminals this city could produce.

"He doesn't know, when I talked to him earlier Garza said they're afraid somebody in Maroni's family is making a bid for rebuilding the family, that he might be looking to ally himself with her."

"And nobody felt it was important to tell me this?"

"No one's picked up on it so far except the narc officers, so we honestly don't know what's going on."

"Well, from now on I need to know everything. In the meantime, let's see what this contact can tell us about when the next robbery is going to take place."

*

There was a pounding on Johnny's door, and as only a handful of people knew how to get to the door, this was fairly alarming. He opened it and found Harley, obviously panicked. She stumbled into the rooms and collapsed onto the couch, her face in her hands. "I marked him for a cop as soon as I saw him," Harley said, out of breath.

"Who?"

"One of the guys, one of the ones that wants to do a robbery, he brought a 'friend' to see me and he was a cop, I don't know how I know that but he was definitely not just another thug." Maybe she had J's sixth sense after all, but it was too bad that hadn't kicked in a lot earlier.

"Did he see your face?" Johnny asked. She'd caught him at a bad time, he was cooking the stuff in a lab that had once been another bedroom. It was the middle of the day, and she had kept her cool while the cop was there, but as soon as it was over she panicked and ran to Johnny. She wished J was here, J would have killed the guy and known how to make it look like one of the drug lords did it, make it go unnoticed. Or just kill him obviously, with his signature, and not have to worry about getting caught like Harley did.

"No, of course not, but he heard my voice, Johnny. He can ID me."

"Only if you get brought in," he said soothingly. "Why didn't you kill him?"

"He was with his contact – his contact might have gone to the cops, he's jumpy as it is. He tried to get me to let him on a bank job, and I nearly let him … I was so stupid. I should have just killed them both, but I wasn't sure …"

"Should have killed them anyway, better not to take the risk." She was shaking – and suddenly she was glad J wasn't there. He'd be so mad at her for being so stupid and weak about it. "Let the contact go on a robbery. Kill him like all the others." It seemed so obvious, but what about the cop? She had to calm down, people didn't think well when they panicked. "As for the the cop – you think he's dumb enough to meet with you again?"

"Not without back-up."

"He might have had back-up this time, you were right not to chance it." Oh sure – Johnny was trying to make her feel better. Then it came to her, something so brilliant and natural she was amazed she hadn't thought of it before.

"I … I know what to do. Johnny, any of your patients come back to you after the Joker went to Arkham?"

"Several."

"Any women?"

"Yes, several."

"Any of them my height and weight?"  
"Well, Stacy, but …"  
"But what?"

"She was never my patient, she was only admitted to Arkham after – the incident at the Narrows."

"But she was in Arkham?"

"Yes."

"When was she released?"  
"Two weeks after the Joker went into Arkham."

"That's brilliant, when was she admitted?"

"It was right before I met him, actually. She was picked up for creating a public disturbance and taken to the psychiatric ward at County Hospital, but transferred because she attacked a doctor."

"Any charges filed?"

"Not that I know of."

"So the police wouldn't have her DNA on file?" He was getting excited now, wondering what she was planning.

"No, they wouldn't. What are you thinking?"

"An enormous red herring for Gotham's finest. J told me – one of the lies he told me about his scars – involved walking in on his father molesting his sister, and how the father cut his mouth for it, and how they killed the old monster together." She could tell from the way he grimaced that even Johnny was pretty appalled at J's wicked imagination. "Think she could imitate my accent, and then drop it later like it was an act all along?"

"Maybe, think this scheme will fool the police?"

"Long enough to create some more chaos and get rid of the cop."

"Tell me what I need to tell her. How are you going to tip off the Joker?"

"Remember Katy Knott?"

*

Most of the clowns surrendered immediately, but some fought. The target herself saw them coming, and, conveniently positioned closest to the nearest exit as it was (that must have been planned), was able to make it out the back door. Several officers gave chase while the rest remained on the scene to round up the clowns and secure the area. The contact who had alerted them was long dead – his throat slit. Garza had tried to protect him, providing a bullet proof vest, but the target must have marked him. One of the officers made a frantic call to headquarters, telling them to go get the contact's handler, Officer David Brown, and to get him now, keeping his cover didn't really matter at this point.

The target led the officers on a wild chase through the twisted alleyways of Gotham. At one point, they thought they had lost her, but then there came a loud cry of pain, a woman's cry of pain, and then the officer at the front of the chase practically tripped over a woman, dressed like the other robbers, her leg drawn up to her chest in pain, her hands bound. The officer looked up and saw the swish of a black cape disappearing over a rooftop. "Freeze!" he shouted, pulling his weapon as the man who had been behind him tackled the girl as she tried to crawl away, but the Batman was long gone.

*

The woman sitting in the interrogation room was shackled, barefoot, and had five guards inside and outside the room, just in case she shared her inspiration's ingenuity at escaping. She had shoulder-length, curly brown hair, a thin, pale face, and wild dark eyes – the same color as the Joker's. "What's your name?" Jim asked.

"I want to talk to a lawyer," the girl said flatly. She used an accent like the one Jason Todd had described. Her eyes were heavily shaded, her lips thin and her teeth not in the best shape. She certainly looked crazy.

"Oh, about the bank robberies or the fact that one of my cops is now missing?"

"That's your problem, Commissioner, you'd think you'd keep better track of your men."

"Your name won't incriminate you, what's your name?"

"How do you know it won't?" she asked. She looked at him defiantly, but she wouldn't look him in the eye. He heard the door opening and knew it was Sarah. He had been told he should lay off and let his underlings do the leg work now that he was Commissioner, but, with certain cases, he just couldn't let it go.

"Commissioner, we have an ID, Arkham just sent this." Jim glanced over his shoulder to see how the woman reacted, and he saw that she really didn't look too surprised. He took the file from her and flipped it open. Stacy Norman, moved to Arkham from the psych ward at County Hospital, admitted to County just two days before the first Joker robbery, released just a week after the Joker was arrested, so she could have been traveling with him but no one in Gotham would have seen her.

"All right, Stacy, your lawyer's on his way," he said and stood up as though about to leave the room, leaving her there.

"Wait … wait … when can I see my brother?"

"Your brother?" Jim asked, pretending he hadn't ever considered that possibility, turning to face her as he stood in the doorway.

"I … I guess it's time to stop pretending," she said, dropping her accent. She sounded like she was from Chicago, speaking with the same accent now as the Joker. "I want to see him, I want to see him now."

"Your brother is the Joker?" Sarah asked, also pretending to be taken completely off guard.

"Half-brother," she said softly, looking down. "Look, I just want to see him."

"Half-siblings how?" Sarah asked.

"If I tell you, will you let me see him?"

"That's not exactly valuable information, Stacy, it'll just save us a little time, so, no. But if you cooperate with us, we might be a little more understanding about your wish to see him," Jim said gently, coming back to sit across from her at the table. She seemed to like him better – for some reason most female suspects were that way when it came to him and Sarah.

"We had the same slut for a mother, but his father was just a worthless piece of crap who walked out on him, mine was the real monster."

"Not a very happy home life," Sarah said cuttingly, instantly assuming the role of bad cop.

"You couldn't figure that out?" Stacy asked. She was starting to shake a little. "My … my father used to …"

"Take your time."

"He did the worst thing anyone can do to a little kid, okay?"

"What was his last name?" Sarah broke in.

"Norman," Stacy said, confused.

"No, your brother's. What was his last name?" Stacy pressed her lips together and shook her head.

"Do you want to see him? Do you want to see him?" She was in Stacy's face, shouting and slapping the table. Stacy closed her eyes and looked away.

"No, he told me not to tell anyone. He said we didn't have to be who we were in Chicago anymore, that we could leave all of that behind us."

"Your father do the worst thing anyone can do to a little kid to him too?" Sarah asked, and it was amazing how callous she managed to make it sound.

"No, no, only me. Kyle tried to stop him, Dad's the one who cut his mouth."

"Kyle?" Jim asked, the surprise genuine this time. Stacy turned white, her mouth open a little, like she knew she had messed up and messed up big time. She looked at them warily, then nodded.

"What is his last name?" Sarah asked again.

"It doesn't matter, his only name is the Joker now."

"And what's your only name?" Sarah asked.

"I haven't earned one yet."

"Don't say another word, Ms. Norman," a male voice said from behind as the door opened. "I thought you knew better than this, Commissioner, my client is obviously not in any shape to answer questions at this time." It was the same public defender who had represented the Joker since his arrest – he might be a lowly public defender, but he was an ambitious little snot. His plan was probably to be taken on by an established firm and do cases like this pro bono.

"Mr. Kelly, we meet again. I assume you're going to present an affirmative defense?"

"My client is obviously not in the best mental condition, Commissioner."

"She was rational enough to run from the police and ask for a lawyer," Sarah said coldly.

"Yes, well, those are rather basic instincts, no matter how battered by schizophrenia the mind is."

"Are you a psychiatrist, Counselor?" Jim asked, though he had to admit that, based on his limited knowledge, Stacy fit the diagnosis a lot better than her brother, if he was her brother.

"No, but it runs in families." So, who exactly had told Kelly all this? Or had he been there all along, waiting to interrupt them until Stacy was about to incriminate herself? "And anyway, the abuse that she endured at her father's hands left her totally dependent on her brother, she'd do anything he told her too."

"How do you know so much about this, Kelly?"

"Her brother is the one who alerted me to his sister's presence here, Commissioner."

"How did he know? Anyway, I thought he was catatonic, did he just miraculously snap out of it?" Jim asked, never losing his cool even though all his instincts said something was not as it seemed.

"He gave a letter to one of the nurses, I have it here if you'd like to examine it."

"Yes, thank you," Jim said and extended his hand for the piece of paper. It was rough and creased like it had been folded and unfolded many times, and it looked like it was written in blood – Jim wasn't sure he wanted to know whose. The writing was hard to read, but from what Jim could decipher the Joker was saying it was all his fault, in typical bragging Joker fashion, and threatening to kill a hundred police officers if any of the cops hurt a hair on his sister's head, making a big joke out of it of course. It was almost definitely him, if somebody had forged it they did an amazing job.

"How did he find out we had her?"

"They let him watch the news, Commissioner, he heard that you had a copycat in custody and he knows exactly who it was all along."

"All right, you can go in and see her. We're trying to get hold of Jason Todd for a voice identification, and with Brown if we find him …"  
"Is that really necessary, Commissioner?" Kelly asked. "My client has been through enough today, she just wants to see her brother."

"Yes it is. I've dealt with too much of the Joker's crap to take all of this at face value." With that he stepped aside and let Kelly into the room, and turned to Sarah, who shook her head.

"What do we do now?" she asked.

"Wait for news to come in from Chicago, figure out if a single word of what she's told us is true. In the meantime, tell forensics to run her DNA against the Joker's. If she's not really the Joker's half-sister I want to know about it."

"She was stupid to say they had the same mother, if she'd said they had the same father she could have gotten out of that by saying her mom fooled around or something."

"You don't believe her either, I see."

"No. The timing is all just a little too convenient." They walked away together to get coffee, both of them hoping against hope Officer Brown was still alive as they walked.

*

Brown was moaning in agony, being beaten senseless by the two enforcers above him. Julius Burciaga usually would have ordered a quick death, but Brown's work was liable to be the downfall of several drug lords and, the more brutal his murder, the more likely it would be that Julius could use it to gain respect of independent drug dealers and turn them against local families. Brown couldn't lift his head, couldn't understand anything except the horrible agony he was in, didn't have a hope left for this world. His vision was going black, and he knew this was the end. He had seen enough beatings to know that he had been hurt worse than anyone could survive without immediate attention, and he was far away from any help. He tried to say the Rosary, but he couldn't speak, so he tried to recite it in his head, but the words kept being jumbled. All he could think straight was _God, God help me, God help_ …

He was starting to fade, and even that simple prayer was getting jumbled and lost. He was vaguely aware that his beating had stopped, and that there was someone new in the room. This person shouted, in a young, strong voice, "Hands up!" But the young man had no weapon. He heard a scuffle as he was fading – the young man was taking on the two thugs singlehandedly, knocking a knife that one pulled out of his hands. He was already hurt when he came in, he was limping, yet he fought the enforcers, both bigger than he was, for all he was worth, and Brown didn't know how he did it. He tried to crawl away, but he couldn't move. He was still fading. Maybe, maybe, maybe they could take him to the hospital in time, maybe he could see his daughter Leah again … One thug hit the wall head first and went down, knocked out or dead, Brown was beyond caring. The other one was still fighting the young man, but then the young man managed to take the wind out of him with a blow to the jugular and then he pulled a pair of handcuffs – cheap ones from a dollar store – and handcuffed the guy to some pipes. For a minute, he thought Leah was there crying, and he tried to tell her, "Leah, it's okay, Daddy loves you …" Then the young man was kneeling by Brown. "You're gonna make it, Officer," he said reassuringly, as the last of Brown's vision faded and voices started to echo. He heard the young man's voice, muffled and altered, but maybe that was just because sound was fading too, saying, "Officer Down, Warehouse 23 on Cato Street, two suspects subdued, severe beating injuries to the officer, minor injuries to the suspects …" and then he stopped talking and sprinted away. Brown didn't know anything after that.


End file.
